


Friendly Fire

by visiblemarket



Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: M/M, i have never been more frustrated with fictional characters for cockblocking themselves, i wanted for this to end in porn so badly, spoiler alert: it doesn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chas teaches John how to use a gun. For <i>shooting</i> people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friendly Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired _very, very_ vaguely by [this](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/104115855966/why-does-this-make-me-laugh-so-hard-why) and the fact that NBC!Chas just whips that shotgun around like he knows what to do with it.

“This is a bad idea."

“You always start off sayin' that, mate—"

“Because it always is."

"—but y'always come round in the end."

Chas sighs, because it's true, and John grins at him, because he knows it. 

And then John winks, and makes a halfhearted effort to twirl the shotgun over the back of his hand; it clatters, spins, and almost hits the ground before Chas grabs it. John tries to pull it back, but Chas is taking no further chances, and does what he should've from the start: pops the barrel open, removes the shells, and then snaps it shut again. John rolls his eyes.

"Not precisely an expert on this, mate, but that’s gonna make it a bit hard to hit something, innit?"

"You're not ready for that," he says, handing the shotgun back.

“What’m I ready for, then?” John grumbles, bringing it up and tucking the butt against his shoulder.

“Wait, put it—“ he pushes the gun down, gently. “Here,” he says, guiding John’s right hand around the grip, behind the trigger. John’s fist clenches automatically, knuckles whitening, and Chas runs his thumb over them. “Not so tight. You’re not trying to strangle it.” John’s right hand relaxes, but his left slides too far up the barrel, and Chas has to slide it back down again. “There. Right in…” Chas traces the line between John’s thumb and forefinger. “Right there. Then bring it up. But keep your hands—"

“Yeah, yeah,” says John, doing well enough as he props it back up against his shoulder again.

“Make sure it’s tight against your shoulder."

“It’s tight!” 

“Okay,” Chas says, and steps up behind him. “Now you’ve got to be kind of…at an angle, so..” he drops a hand to the side of John’s back and gives him a nudge. John leans back against his palm for a second, but shifts into position, hips swaying more than is strictly speaking necessary. 

“There?"

“Yeah. Legs apart a bit more.” John makes a sound which very closely resembles a snort; Chas ignores it, and kicks lightly at the instep of John’s left boot. John jumps slightly, as if surprised, but moves to obey, rolling his shoulders impatiently as Chas takes a steps back to get a better look.

“How much’s a bit?” 

“Shoulder width. Bend your knees a little. A _little_ , John.” John chuckles, and straightens. “Now get your cheek right up against the—“ John catches on, presses his face against the stock. “Got the sight?"

“Got it, yeah. I’d shoot now?” he says, staring at the line of beer cans positioned in a line across a log, and reaching for the trigger. 

“Yeah,” Chas says, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Yeah, you’d shoot now. But first—“ John looks over his shoulder, unironically curious and genuinely attentive. Chas swallows a smile. “Put it down and bring it up again."

John turns his head back and does so, dropping the shotgun to about waist level and then swing it back up again. His left hand slips, but he tries to correct for it. “Where do I—"

“Here,” Chas says, stepping up behind him again, and guides it along the barrel. His other hand settles, automatically, on John’s hip. “Okay, put it down."

John gives a slightly exaggerated huff, but does.

“And up again."

“Bloody hell, Chas,” John grouses.

“It has to be automatic."

“And here I thought it was a shotgun, mate."

“If you’d rather be making jokes—"

“I’d rather be learnin’ how to _use_ the bloody thing!” 

Chas can feel the tension coiling in him, and gives his hip a friendly, hopefully calming squeeze. "In the heat of the moment—"

“Ah, but you know me, mate,” he drawls, and Chas doesn’t need to see his face to actually _hear_ the leer. “I’m bloody _brilliant_ in the heat o’ the moment.” John leans back into him. Chas steps away. 

“Not as good as you think."

“Not as—wait, d’you—" John turns back to look at him again, and looks actually, legitimately crestfallen, and Chas takes pity on him, holds back a laugh, and pulls the shells out of his pocket. 

“One more time and I’ll put these back in."

John narrows his eyes at him, but turns away and swings the shotgun back up and against his cheek. His hands stay in place and his stance is good, if still a little stiff. 

“Okay,” Chas says, and walks back up to him. “But you’ve gotta practice that part too, okay?” John turns, hands him the shotgun without a word, and watches carefully as he loads it. “When I’m not here—"

“Right, yeah,” John yanks it out of his hands, and Chas sighs.

“Don’t do that. It could go off if you—"

“I’m not a bloody _idiot_ , Chas—“ 

“I didn’t say you—"

“Got the bloody _safety_ on, haven’t I? _Christ_ ,” he spits, as he turns away from Chas and brings the gun back up to his shoulder. “Do I just—"

“Focus on the target. Take a breath, then just… _gently_ squeeze the trigger, okay? And don't worry if don't hit anything on your first try." 

John snorts. “Oh, I won’t." 

“John—"

“Oh, come off it, mate. How hard could it be?"

"After all, I do it?"

John tenses, and lowers the gun. He glances back at him, then away. “’s not what I meant, I just—"

“John.” John’s shoulders tense, enough that Chas can see it happen. He steps up behind him again, and wraps his arm around John’s waist. He presses a quick kiss to the top of John’s head. “Relax. 

John chuckles to himself. “Relaxed."

“Safety off?"

John flips it off without a word. 

“Now just… _gently_ —"

The gun goes off, and John flies back; Chas’s grip around his waist keeps him upright, but just barely; he keeps hold of the gun, at least, and exhales heavily as he sags against Chas’s chest. 

“ _Fuck me_ , that was loud!” 

“Yeah, John, it’s a gun."

“And that was one hell of a kick, mate."

“I told you to keep it tight against your shoulder, John."

“Would’ve broken my bloody shoulder if—"

“It absorbs the shock. Try it again."

John sighs, long suffering, as if it's beneath him, as if it hadn’t been entirely his idea to be out here, doing this. As if Chas hadn’t been perfectly content to never, ever let John anywhere near a firearm of any kind, or, really, fire in general. But here they are, in the woods, a fifteen minute walk from the mill house, with John leaning heavily against his chest and on the verge of dropping his still-loaded shotgun to the ground.

“John,” he says, slowly, and John exhales, shakes his head, and steadies. He brings the shotgun up again, and lets his hand slide his hand up along the barrel. Chas rolls his eyes, even though John can’t see it, and pushes John’s hand back where it should be. “Come on, John."

“What?” John says, and Chas feels him shift. He glances down, sighs, and drops both hands to John’s hips. John shivers a little, which Chas chooses to ignore. 

“Your legs are too far apart."

John lets out a slow, breathy chuckle. “If you say so, mate."

"Are you concentrating?"

John presses against him again. He tips his head back, stretching his neck in unsubtle invitation. Their eyes meet, and John swallows. His adam’s apple bobs. “I’m concentrating."

“On the target?"

John sighs and turns his head back. “Right, yeah. On the target."

John fires again, without preamble. Off in the distance, a slug dings against the side of a can and sends it spinning off the log. Not that John seems to care, of course; he’s tipped his head back again, and is staring up at Chas. His dark eyes sparkle with amusement and anticipation, and fond smirk plays across his lips. It represents a marked improvement on John's earlier mood, and Chas holds back a sigh of relief. He ruffles a hand through John's hair before he pulls back. "Try again."

John's smirk wavers, then fades into a slight, close-mouthed smile as he ducks his head and pops open the shotgun to reload it. John's a quick learner, when he makes the effort, and has the gun up and firing another two shots within minutes. The first hits the log beneath one of the cans, and the second one pierces the aluminum straight through.

“You're getting better," Chas says.

"Gettin’ a bit bored, actually."

"Oh, there's a shock."

John grins at him, and lowers the gun. “Could make a game of it, like."

“Uh-huh,” he says, handing John two new shells; he loads them with ease, grinning at Chas as he snaps the gun closed. 

“Six cans left, right? We switch off. First to miss loses."

“What does the winner get?"

John shrugs. “Whatever he wants."

“That’s kind of broad,” Chas says, taking the gun from him. He straightens, aims, and shoots. “Okay."

John grins and takes the gun from him, hoists it back against is shoulder, and fires. He doesn’t miss, and hands the gun back to Chas with a smirk. 

Chas goes to load it again, and John, true to form, pulls out a cigarette.

“So."

“So?” Chas says, as he aims for the next can. He hears the click of the lighter, and the familiar, slow inhale. 

“Your father teach you all this?"

Chas fires. The can wobbles slightly before toppling to the ground. He turns around. “You know he didn’t." 

John shrugs. “Right. Suppose I did. You gonna teach Geraldine?"

Chas hands him the shotgun, and receives the cigarette in return. He resists the temptation to drop it to the ground.

“She’s a little young for that."

John fires. “But?"

Chas hands over the cigarette and receives the shotgun. He shrugs, reloads, and brings it up to his shoulder.

“Someday. If she wants to," he says, like he hasn’t thought about it. “To protect herself, if nothing else."

“Bet Renee’ll _love_ that,” says John, under his breath.

Chas fires.

“I’d ask her permission first,” he says, as they make their exchange. He takes a puff of the cigarette and John makes a face at him over the stock of the shotgun. “What?"

John’s eyes slide away from him and to the ground, then back to the remaining cans. “What’s it they say? 'Better t’ ask for forgiveness then permission'?” 

Chas sighs. “What did you do?"

“Nothing I shouldn’t’ve done ages ago,” he says, slightly petulant, and squares up his shoulders. Before he can fire, Chas grabs the barrel and pushes it down. John glares up at him, and Chas meets his gaze steadily. 

“John."

“Cloaking spell. Like with—Like with Liv,” John drops his gaze. “Didn’t tell—shoulda done it before. Didn’t think of it, but after—well, thought I’d tell you now."

Chas lets go of the shotgun. John brings it up again; he shoots, and in the distance, the far end of the log shatters, sending charred splinters of wood flying across the carpet of dead leaves.

John hands the gun back to him without a word, and receives the cigarette with a sharp nod of thanks. Chas waits for him to take a drag before speaking.

“You're cheating, now?"

John coughs. “Dunno what you mean, mate." 

“Of course not,” Chas says, shaking his head. “C’mon.” He heads toward what’s left of the log, and the cans, without bothering to see if John’s following.

John trails after him. “C’mon, what?” 

“I get whatever I want now, right?"

“Believe those were the terms, yeah."

Chas fishes the plastic bag out of his pocket and gestures at the assorted aluminum casualties of their effort. “I want help cleaning this up."

John rolls his eyes. “‘course you’d have to be a sore bloody _winner_ , Chas."

“You helping me or not?” he says, leaning the shotgun against a tree, as he goes to pick up the first can.

John doesn’t answer, but he heads to the other side of log, and gets to work, frowning around the cigarette in his mouth, and probably risking a forest fire with every step. 

Between the two of them, clearing the detritus doesn’t take long. John doesn’t even complain when Chas hands him the now-full bag, and they walk back together, mostly in silence.

“Can do a hell of a lot of damage with one of those, can’t you."

Chas glances over: John’s looking, somewhat disgustedly, at the perforated and aggressively dented cans in the bag.

“Good thing to keep in mind. Don’t aim it at anything you’re not willing to shoot."

John looks at him, dark eyes sharper than usual. “You tellin’ me you’d’ve shot Zed?"

“If I’d thought she was a threat to—if I’d thought she was a threat I would have."

“I’ll tell her you said that."

“I’m betting she knows."

They walk on in silence for a while; John’s got his thoughtful face on, which is never good news, and Chas braces himself for impact. 

They’re in sight of the mill house before John stops short, pulls the cigarette from his mouth, and speaks again: "'s a bloody good skill to have, I’ll give you that."

“John?"

John takes an impatient drag from his cigarette and keeps talking. "Havin’ you around to do it ’s better, o’ course, but havin’ it as a back up option, well, ’s as good a plan as any. Way things are goin’ lately, we’ll need as many of those as we can get."

“What are you trying to say, John?"

John hesitates. Drops the bag to the ground, stares at the mill house for a while. Rocks back on his heels, hands tucked in his pockets, shoulders tense under his white shirt. He spares a quick, uncertain glance at Chas; his expression is unfamiliar and that’s unsettling enough to make Chas almost glad when he drops his gaze. “Dunno about all this,” he says, finally, ducking his head toward the shotgun Chas’s got slung over the crook of his elbow.

“About shooting people?” Chas thinks he does a halfway decent job of not sounding incredulous, but John scowls at him anyway.

“Don’t think I don’t see the irony,” he says, and kicks impatiently at an entirely innocent patch of grass. “Done worse without much of a thought, haven’t I? Never had a problem killin’, either. Not when I had to."

This is a lie, Chas knows; the only question is whether John is just lying to him, or to himself as well. Chas gives him the best comfort he can: “People say it's a defensive weapon."

John raises his eyebrows at him, and Chas feels compelled to clarify. “A shotgun. They say it’s a defensive weapon."

“Do they, now.” John snorts. "And what’ve you got to say about that?"

“I say it’s like anything else. Comes down to who’s using it, and why. And…"

“And?” John turns to face him. 

“There’s worse ways to die.” 

John presses his lips together, nods, drops his cigarette and stubs it out against the wet earth. “Guess I’ll have to trust your judgment on that one, mate,” he says, turning toward the house again. 

“Well,” he says, taking a step closer and bumping his arm against John’s. "First time for everything, I guess.” 

John huffs, lips wavering between a smirk and an actual smile, and elbows him back. “Wouldn’t get used to it, if I were you."

“Don’t worry,” he says, wraps his arm around John’s shoulder, presses a kiss to John’s temple, and feels some of the tension in John’s body drain away, replaced by warmth that begins to seep into his own. “I won’t.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> I think it's probably plainly obvious that I know nothing about shotguns.


End file.
